Red Card
Page 29
The Sanghvi boys batter Kamani Krida. They have never been beaten more soundly. Security guards run in from the gates to prevent the spectators from leaping down from the stands and joining the fray. Soon, order is restored and Mahoob Riaz frantically blows his whistle. He calls off the match and declares Kamani Krida as winners. In his final act of the match, he gives each and every member of Shri Sunderlal Sanghvi School a red card. Every time he shows one of the Sanghvi boys a card, they scream and clap as if they are receiving a medal.
Rishabh Bala asks the referee if he can take the card home.
‘What! Why?’
‘It’s better than a trophy,’ says Rishabh.
And he is right. Years later, he will think back to this match and remember what makes his school team so special. So many school teams won trophies. But to have the whole team sent off—now that was a rare distinction.
EXTRA TIME
March 2007
RISHABH WAS WRITING his last board exam: biology. His hand moved swiftly across his answer sheet. He had a good feeling about the paper, save for a few true-and-false questions. He glanced at his watch. He was half an hour away from the end. His fingers had gone numb because of the manic speed with which he had written his answers. His elbow felt frozen from overuse. At long last, he completed his paper and set his pen down on the desk.
As he nursed his aching fingers, he looked around and saw he was the first person to have finished. Everyone else was still slogging away in different poses of concentration. They were seated in the gymnasium, as it was the only room big enough to accommodate the whole batch. Diagonally ahead of him sat Puro, who was scribbling furiously. Here they finally were.
It seemed like a dream. It seemed like he had lived a lifetime in the span of a year. The boy who now sat with his biology paper in front of him was not the boy who had been bathed in the white light of the TV that night when Zinedine Zidane had brought his dome down on Materazzi’s chest. He had ridiculed Zidane for that moment of madness, but it finally made sense. Everyone has their own personal Eklavya. Zidane’s was called Materazzi. And no glory comes close to the satisfaction of walloping an Eklavya.
Rishabh grinned as he thought of that semi-final at Kamani Krida. They had returned to school on the bus, twirling their jerseys and singing all the way. The coach’s had been the loudest voice. He’d even taught them all the old, filthy anthems that had rung across the terraces of Salt Lake Stadium. The boys had roared along. The coach’s eyes were glistening as he’d watched a new generation join the chorus.
When the bus had come to a stop, he’d gathered the boys together.
‘It is time I tell you this because I say this very rarely: I am very proud of what you boys have done. You boys are special. I hope you play on. Football deserves your talent. When the time comes, I hope you are brave enough,’ he chuckled, ‘or stupid enough to continue playing. Give it a try. And if you need anything, I am there. Don’t worry.’ He’d looked at each of their faces in the fading light and smiled. Even his moustache had seemed happy for once. ‘I’ll miss you, boys.’
‘Sir, thank you for—’ Rishabh had begun.
‘Aye, all this senti stuff you say at my funeral.’ And just like that, the coach had shut the tiny window of vulnerability once again.
They had hugged the coach and thanked him. As they’d waited at the school gate, they heard the steady puttering of a motorcycle. They’d watched till the coach had drifted away.
Towards the end of December, something strange had happened. Purohit called Rishabh early one morning. His voice was ragged with excitement. ‘Read the newspaper right now!’
Sleepily, Rishabh had shuffled through the pages. There, in a small box on the right side of page seven, was a picture of a large crocodile thrashing inside a metal box. The succinct caption read:
Twelve-year-old crocodile caught in Upvan Lake. It was relocated by forest officials.
‘Unbelievable,’ said Rishabh.
‘It was right there the whole time!’ said Puro.
Rishabh had cut out the newspaper clipping and stuck it on his desk. It felt like a good omen that something hidden all this while had finally surfaced.
For the remainder of the school year, Rishabh had sat behind a fortress of books on the same desk. He’d take his food at his table. He’d take naps at his table. His mind settled into the dull routine of academics. And so the days had passed by swiftly, and the boards had commenced.
‘Last five minutes!’ screamed the invigilator, making the many brain cells and tendons around her jump into overdrive.
Now here he was at the very end—the last five minutes of his final paper. Now all he had to do was wait. It was such a long, leg-shaking, heart-aching wait. And then the bell rang. The teacher collected the papers. She counted them. Then she turned to the hall. ‘Now you may leave.’
A bubble popped inside him, followed by a familiar rush of adrenaline. He scrambled out of his seat. He didn’t ask people how their paper went. He couldn’t be bothered. There was only one thought on his mind. He picked up his bags from outside the examination hall. Skidding into the first toilet he could find, he tore off his school uniform with wild urgency. He fumbled into his football kit. His heart was racing.
Rishabh runs on to the ground. Puro’s already there. ‘You’re too slow,’ he says.
Slowly, the rest of the team make their frantic entries. Floyd, Rahul, Dave, Tejas, Sumit and Bhupinder. He looks at them with pride. What an honour it is to play with these legends, he thinks. They split into teams and start playing. Soon, other boys from the tenth standard join them. They slip in and pick a side at random. No one seems to mind or care. The game goes on.
Eventually he scores, and wheels away in delight. Instinctively, he looks at the shed next to the ground. There is no tall, moustachioed figure to nod in acknowledgement. He’s on his own from today. The coach will be there for those that come after him. And there will be many. He wishes them all the magic and heartbreak that was his. The game goes on.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and the sun glares down on them. Then a shadow passes over the ground. Rishabh looks up and sees a big gloomy cloud cover the sun. It’s one that looks familiar, like a straggly remainder of the clouds that had appeared at the start of the school year. The cloud passes, and the game goes on. They play until Ghadge Sir drives them away and brings to an end their last game on the school ground.
Acknowledgements
THERE IS A lot of pressure to write this section because for a lot of my friends, this is the only page they’re going to read. The writer puts down words alone, submerged in the glow of a lonely laptop screen, but a book gets written by the dozens of people who bathe him in their attention and affection. This is to thank all those generous, wonderful people.
The first and foremost thanks is to my parents, without whom this would literally not have happened. The quote rings true—the older you get, the smarter your parents become. Their patience astonishes me and their wisdom elevates me.
A big hug to Siddhi. Not only did she inspire the writing of the final draft of this novel, but she also saw me through the torturous process of writing it. As if that was not enough, her talent and imagination are behind the beautiful cover. I am so glad I swiped up.
Next I have to thank the people who suffered me through the teenage years that formed a large part of this novel. A lot of my gratitude goes to my aunt Veena Srivastava, uncle Rajendra Nayak, cousins Shrinkhala and Vibhor Nayak and my grandmother Vidya Srivastava. The Neelkanth years will always be among my favourites. Thanks for all the fish!
Abhishek Ambekar—Ambe—thanks for the company, the laughs, the passes and the adventure. Can’t wait to see you play for the Indian national football team.
I had the time of my life playing on the school football team. We never won anything other than each other’s friendship, but it turned out to be enough. A special thanks to Pavan Powar, George Jose, Aman Choudhary and Suyash Sawant; our co
ach Manzur Arfin, who is one of the fairest, finest men I have met. It was an honour playing for you, sir. And Shedge Sir, whose gruff warmth I miss even after all these years.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Smt. Sulochanadevi Singhania School. It was a pleasure to walk the corridors and inhabit the classrooms for as long as it took to write this book. It is, was and will be where the magic is. A sincere thanks to all the teachers too, along with an even more sincere apology. I can’t begin to understand how you tolerated the unruly, ungrateful kids that we were.
This book would have always remained just a document on my laptop if it wasn’t for Vivek Tejuja. Thank you for tweeting and for steering the book to the right people. Thank you to the wonderful folks who’ve put in their hours and expertise into this book: Anupam Verma, Niyati Dhuldhoya, Kankana Basu and everyone else at Penguin Random House India who has helped transform this book from a Word doc to something that can be found in a bookstore.
Next are all my friends who’ve heard me talk about this book incessantly for the many, many years it’s taken to write it. Thank you for not thinking I was insane, or at least for not letting me know you thought it. This starts with RGDC (Neehar Jathar, Prithika Vageeswaran, Tanvi Vaidya, Sankalp Kelshikar, Sailee Rane and Sayali Marawar), Zameer Vikamsey and Praveen Patil, Nikhil and Daisy Taneja, Ankit Joshi and Sandeep Narayanan, SnG Comedy (Aadar Malik, Neville Shah and Varun Thakur). And finally, thanks to the first girl I dated. You know who you are.
I’d also like to thank A to Z Printers for keeping their shutters open well past closing time just so I could get the first spiral-bound copy of my book. A thank you to Sunanda Pednekar; your effort and dedication make writing easier by the day. Rahul Bheke, thank you for your generosity. And James the cat for being adorable.
And lastly, a thank you to anyone else who’s reading this and feeling offended that their name hasn’t been mentioned. You know I love you.
THE BEGINNING
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This collection published 2018
Copyright © Kautuk Srivastava 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Jacket images © Siddhi Surte
ISBN 978-0-143-44195-3
This digital edition published in 2018.
e-ISBN: 978-9-353-05330-7
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